


To Catch a Falling Star

by japansace



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Canon Universe, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Poetry, fantasy or allegory? you decide, just a little i promise, not necessarily in that order
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 08:16:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14076729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/japansace/pseuds/japansace
Summary: Victor Nikiforov is cursed to surprise. Yuuri Katsuki is cursed to not.They find each other anyway.





	To Catch a Falling Star

**Author's Note:**

> Alternatively titled "a zine submission got wAY OUT OF HAND--"

“Surprise me,” they said;

and he did.

He did,

he did,

_he did—_

He had hair of starlight and a smile of crested moonbeams. He danced like love and cried like he’d never known pain. His skin glowed radiant; his eyes burned bright. It was as if the gods themselves had kissed the earth, soft and dewy like fresh-fallen snow, on the occasion of his birth.

Which meant, of course, that something had to be terribly wrong with him.

“He’s cursed to surprise,” they said. “In order to survive, he must become an unending chain of surprises.”

And he was.

* * *

Victor Nikiforov was dying.

It was a pleasant death, by all accounts. Like slipping into distilled bathwater just this side of tepid. But death was death no matter how you spun it, and much like a frog slowly becoming acclimated to the rising temperature of a pot being boiled over, he, too, was steadily being cooked.

The first indication germinated in his skin. He was known for— _famous_ for—its rosy glow, always appearing as though he had a healthy amount of drink in his system, like he was being warmed generously from the inside out.

Before he’d even taken note of it, the pigment one day vanished, drained from his face as though it’d been bled out. He was left with sunken cheeks and a pallor complexion that stared him back in the mirror, appearing, already, as if the life had been cleanly stripped from him, spirited away in the night.

He applied blush and pretended not to know better when people asked after him.

Then there were his eyes, deep as the ocean and twice as beautiful, color cascading onto color, shades and tones tumbling upon one another like the tides. They said you couldn’t step in the same river twice, and the same was true of Victor Nikiforov: You could never look at his eyes in the same way.

Unlike his skin, they faded at an agonizingly slow pace, being muted to a dull, shallow blue, the light they’d held waning and waning until it drip-dropped like gutter water down his face, cold to the touch, staining the bathroom floor with his sorrow.

He invested in contact lenses and cursed himself when he slept in them, becoming too familiar with the mask.

It was only when his hair—his lovely hair, his only solace in life—came out in angry clumps that he truly realized the extent of his newfound condition, clutching gossamer strands between his spindly fingers, watching them wash down the drain, never to adorn his crown again.

He took scissors to it the very next morning, preferring to see it gone rather than be forced to watch it go.

* * *

It was strange: becoming acquainted with the concept of death.

But it was a bone-deep chill now, settled in every fiber of his being, burrowing in his heart and constructing a nest along the edge of his pulse, weaving into his fond memories until everything was made to be a single blur of gray.

Yet, jaded as he had become, Victor Nikiforov was not without hope.

It was what compelled him to pick his theme—to pick his _music_ —that would call upon his help, a lone siren cast at sea, gasping for a flute of air even as the waves turn him over and over.

He’d stand upon that water—frozen, unfeeling—and etch one last final cry into the ice.

It was a serenade without a lover, a duet without a partner. He left gaps between the crux of his arms, beckoning someone to fill the space. His jumps were high and wide, his turns, lax and mutable. He meant for it to shock—to surprise anyone who dared to wonder, for one moment, if Victor Nikiforov could ever truly be lonely.

_Where are you, my love? Where are you, my heart?_

_It’s killing me, slowly, each day kept apart._

His skates cleaved the message, once, twice, thrice upon the ice—until all other remnants were wiped away by the gentle march of time, by the fruits of his labor being splattered across the canvas.

Destruction was left in his wake, crude and cosmic, though gone in the blink of an eye as he held his finishing pose, clutching desperately to a being that wasn’t there.

The applause rained dully on his ears—the adoration, the cheers—but he knew in the depths of his hollow heart that he had failed, yet again, to surprise. The patrons were amused, yes, but it was a predictable sort of fascination: a faint interest in whether or not Victor Nikiforov could maintain the winning streak he had stumbled upon in his search for something greater.

And failure, above all else, was the mistress he was least likely to court.

His smile—once so natural, so beautiful—felt particularly strained, an old costume that didn’t quite fit. Even the plated metal hung around his neck was incapable of inspiring anything greater than apathy in the dead center of his chest. When he imparted a kiss onto its surface, he imagined it the cheek of a lover he’d yet to meet, cold and weighty as it was against the brunt of his lips. Maybe then, if he could only pretend, his expression wouldn’t be scrutinized come the press conference; he wouldn’t be asked, “Why, Victor Nikiforov, did you appear so unhappy?”

Because he would then have to clarify that he wasn’t unhappy—that he _is_ unhappy.

There was a difference, after all.

Once away from the crowd, he coughed up the glitter—blinked the gold flecks from his eyes—until emotion followed, tears dappling against the vanity, morose and austere. He scrabbled for brushes, grappled for powders—each indistinguishable from the other—until he appeared more human, then tossed the lot into his bag, a cold clink against the glint of his skates.

One more performance, he thought. He could manage one more.

He would show the world that Victor Nikiforov had one last surprise in him yet.

Then he’d finally, happily be no more.

* * *

 

“Do not surprise me,” they said;

and he didn’t.

He didn’t,

he didn’t,

 _he didn’t—_  

He had hair of quasars and a smile of quiet humility. He danced like it was simply natural for him and cried like big, ugly tears that shattered the hearts of everyone around him. His skin was typical; his eyes were ordinary. It was as if the gods had turned their backs for the faintest of moments and allowed an angel to craft a human, beautiful but flawed, in their place.

This oversight, it seemed, was the root cause of his problem.

“He’s cursed to never surprise,” they said. “In order to survive, he must become the antithesis of an unending chain of surprises." 

And he was.

* * *

Yuuri Katsuki was not dying.

But he felt as though he was anyway.

It came to him in the dark: the fear, the existential dread. Would today be the day he made a mistake? Tomorrow? Was that thing he said too surprising? Was that thing he did enough to shock?

It ate at him—feasted on his nerves—until he was a hollow husk of a man.

He trembled like a leaf, moved like a skittish fawn, looked at people with preemptive tears in his eyes, waiting for the moment he’d blink out of reality, melted like frost in the dawning sun.

The moment never came, but he still anticipated it.

It was only natural, though, that Yuuri Katsuki would be so nervous. It was expected of him, nary a surprise in sight, no bump nor snare on the horizon, far out as it reached.

So when Yuuri Katsuki fell in love with Victor Nikiforov, that, too, was expected.

He traced Victor Nikiforov’s visage upon the television with shaky fingers, static skittering across his skin at the touch; he looked upon him with untempered eyes, seeing stark whites and electric blues where he once detected mere grays; he practiced his dances, a tongue peeking out from between his chapped lips, and carved the motions into his very being, blood spilling from his reverent feet. 

And he was predictable, and he was predictable, and he was _predictable_ —

All the way to the top.

Which only meant that the fall from which was terribly longer and crueler than he could have ever imagined.

* * *

 

It was strange: becoming comfortable with the inevitability of failure.

The bite of ice into his flesh, however, was a sensation far harder to get accustomed to.

It still shocked the breath out of Yuuri Katsuki: that millisecond where the ground became fickle in its commitment to catch him, his skate blades briefly negotiating his safe return to the earth, then the hesitance—the near-audible rejection, the crack upon the ice—that spelled disaster, spilling him before the world, a jilted offering upon its alter.

He tasted copper; though from shame or genuine injury, he could not say. It was slap against the face either way, a cold, bitter reminder of his place in this world.

Ice skating didn’t belong to him. Ice skating’s sun rose and set on Victor Nikiforov, and he was a fool to think he could share in the limelight.

He should have felt safe in the reassurance—safe in the confirmation that, no matter what, he would be tripping, slipping as he always did, a comfortable distance from the line he would not, did not dare to cross—but it was to be a lonesome bout this time, a fierce reminder of the ephemeral nature of the world, life leading to love leading to loss.

_Where are you, my day? Where are you, my night?_

_The moments blend together, without you by my side._

His movements communicated the message in tiny bursts, little glimpses into the soul that could easily be mistaken for error. His own serenade was lost in the tally of points, in the scrawl of a pen. But it wasn’t a dance for them; it was a dance for _him._

Wherever he was.

When Yuuri Katsuki finally came to a stop—halted, like a moon falling out of orbit—it was to perfunctory applause and tempered enthusiasm. He breathed—hard and heavy—the hair falling into his eyes, the slush stained upon his ankles, and knew this was it: He wouldn’t be medaling tonight. He wouldn’t, may not have been medaling any night, nor day, for that matter.

But whether his words had reached the one he longed for remained to be seen.

The ceremony was to take place without him, his presence hardly missed. It was how he was able to slip away—tuck his pass under the curtain of his jacket, replace his glasses upon the bridge of his nose—and blend into the crowd, a layman among thousands, no worse nor better than any other.

He wasn’t dying. Even through the screaming of his muscles and the ache in his chest, his heart beat on and time moved forward, a never-ending pulse against his ear, in the depths of his neck that ticked constantly, keeping him there, reminding, reminding.

He called his mother to break the news.

And he wasn’t dying, but _god_ , it felt like he was, making hollow jokes, hearing his apologies echo off the walls, not enough, not enough, never enough.

And he sniveled, and he bawled, and he swallowed his grief in awful gasps and hiccupped breaths, each heavier on his tongue than the last, thick in his throat until it drew the attention of another. 

That other—a streak of gold among silver—challenged him, demanded him off the ice should be keep misusing it, then left, a whip of overgrown bangs, barred teeth, and worn-in sneakers lodging in Yuuri Katsuki’s brain like a splinter.

One more performance, he thought. If he could only do one more—

One last attempt had the potential to garner his interest.

Then he’d finally, happily be no more.

* * *

 

“A commemorative photo? Sure!”

* * *

 

There was a banquet. There was always a banquet.

It was where the music was soft and somber and rumors trailed them like shadows—where scandals greeted them like old friends and opportunity and tragedy walked hand in hand.

Laughter rose to the top like champagne bubbles, coating the room—the hall—in a crystalline glow, a pleasant sheen that promised much more than it delivered.

And it was where Victor Nikiforov found himself at the end of every season, for better or for worse.

It was easy: to laugh, to smile, to fall into familiarity, bask in sociability, a shiny trinket among many.

Yes, Victor Nikiforov blended in just fine.

But there was someone else: a flash of obsidian, an uneven step, a misnomer among the crowd. Victor Nikiforov would turn to engage this man only to miss him by mere moments, folded into the fray, concealed by the luminescence, spoken over by the swaggering prattle.

Then the song cut out, was played over by another.

It was the first of many—of a string of dances—that captured the crowd’s attention, galvanized movement.

Yuuri Katsuki was all straight lines and sharp edges, brow crinkled with charming determination, a vision of frantic motion and stiff fabrics. But he was getting softer—having been plied with drink—and was blurring a bit as the ink dribbled from the ends of his hair, the tips of his fingers. It blotted against the dancefloor until his anxieties followed suit, smeared against the bottoms of his dress shoes, into the grooves of the tile.

He took two to task—challenging them, humiliating them—before he was satisfied—a collapsing galaxy, stars upon stars—then cleaved a line across the room, wine-warmed eyes searching, yearning for a single one.

They met.

And they fell together.

“Victoru!”

Victor Nikiforov’s name had never been a mere two—three?—syllables long.

_If this be dream, do not wake me._

“After this season ends, my family runs a hot spring resort, so please come.”

 _If this be fantasy, leave me be._

“If I win this dance battle… you’ll become my coach, right?”

 _If this be error, do not correct me._  

“Be my coach, Victor!”

_If this be fate, let it be destiny._

The breath wisped from Victor’s lungs, a soft caress upon his skin. His blood was singing with newfound warmth—with a heat he hadn’t felt in nearly a decade, spilling from the bridge of his nose, the apples of his cheeks into the cavernous void he’d come to accept, filling him to the brim—to bursting—until it ran over, until the promises parted from his lips in reverential gasps, until he warbled enough nonsense to get Yuuri to swear he spoke truth.

They danced because there was nothing else for them, no other answer that fit quite so succinctly into this posed inquiry. They fell into the beat as one—breathing for each other, lifting the burden from their shoulders, their hearts—until neither was dying or dead, until the mere idea of such seemed absurd.

And affection bloomed in each lingering touch, and fondness swelled in each quickened breath, and love was just a gentle leap away.

They lost shoes; they lost jackets; they found each other.

And for once, being cursed felt like no consequence at all.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been piecing this together bit by bit for a month now. I know it doesn't look like much from the word count, but I put my whole heart into every over-wrought sentence.
> 
> Anyway, thank you so much for reading. Love you~!


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